Here’s a textbook example of a true exploitation film: an on-the-cheap word of warning on any given “social ill” (in this case, racism) that engages in the very subject it claims to decry. The opening three minutes of My Baby Is Black!, although far from politically correct, compose its highlight — a birthing sequence culminating in the bold, brazen exclamation of the title.
The rest of the black-and-white (pun not intended) film is not as in-your-face. In fact, it’s a somber, limply acted, robot-dubbed, French-lensed, melodramatic seriotragedy about a snowy-white Parisian girl named Françoise (Françoise Giret) attracted to a visiting, handsome African-American med student named Daniel (Gordon Heath, Animal Farm).
Together, they hold hands, laugh hysterically at nothing, express their love in voice-over and have lots of unprotected sex. They don’t have conversations per se; they speak in despair-drenched soliloquies so serious, you’d think they’re aching to set them to iambic pentameter.
As the title tells, Françoise gets preggers, prompting her father to attempt coercing her into an abortion, which he justifies by saying, “It is not a sin to get rid of a dirty stain.” The most racist segment arrives in a bizarre moment of supposed comic relief when a black child tells the police about asking the butcher for some ham, only to be smeared with lard and shoved into the fridge. The butcher’s reply: “I was only joking.”
My Baby Is Black! is full of skewed analogies, particularly from the academic voice of reason (Aram Stephan, Bedtime Story), who reasons, “Racism is like a lot of ants. … All ants must be trampled.” Daniel, however, argues, “I can’t agree with what you’re saying, professor. I like ants very much.” That’s not helping the cause, Daniel. —Rod Lott
Charles Band’s attempt to cash in on the 
Thus, Paul does battle with the following:
In his second film, cult-crap director Ted V. Mikels (
Another patient is a quite type who believes the mannequins he dresses for work are real, and thus, serves them coffee. The funniest patient — comparatively speaking, of course, as Dr. Sex is funny to no one, save perhaps your grandfather who jacked off to it in its day — is the fat guy who has naked ghosts cleaning his home, prompting some priceless facial expressions from the poor slob.
Instead, Stacey takes her smoky (and smoker’s) voice to a New York club where she can perform with her chords, not her cans. And this is all before the opening credits! Upon arrival at said club, she wows its manager, Pepe (Grayson Hall, Dr. Julia Hoffman of TV’s 
As a native Oklahoman, I long have fought the stereotype of the Okie as dumb hick. Not helping my case is the title of 1978’s shot-in-the-Sooner-State horror anthology, 
First, Miss Sibiler (Judith Novgrod,